


Stay

by bicycles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adorable Castiel, Dancing, Drinking, Driving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:05:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bicycles/pseuds/bicycles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas doesn't know why he goes out drinking with Dean, or why he stays, but he does. (Short oneshot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> I found this on my computer. I have no idea where I was originally going with this. Enjoy.

Cas didn't know how long they had been at the bar. He didn't know who the girls were dancing on the counter, or why his particular corner smelled suspiciously of skunk, or if they would be leaving soon. What he did know boiled down to a few distinct facts.

He knew the beer in front of him was starting to get warm.

He knew his vessel didn't appreciate warm beer; though, he'd never understand the appeal of _cold_ beer either. Over the past few months, Dean had introduced him to several varieties. They were all, as far as Castiel was concerned, poor excuses for liquified bread.

He discovered shortly after a much stronger affinity to vodka; something which Dean had very quickly deprived him of.

Castiel knew as well that he couldn't find Dean. However long ago they had ended up here, and at this point Castiel thought that had been _days_ ago, the eldest Winchester brother had almost disappeared from the start. This wouldn't ordinarily have been a problem. Except they were at a bar. Cas didn't need to be here; he could have been anywhere, or multiple places at once, stretching across the globe.

But he stayed. Dean had asked him to stay; for some reason, that was enough.

It was as such that Castiel found himself, holding a rather warm, cheap beer, counting the ticking hands of the broken bar clock. He knew it was broken because the hands periodically drifted counter-clockwise, something he knew they weren't meant to do.

The bar definitely wasn't the nicest this side of the Mississippi. The seats were well-worn, bright red plastic booths, lined along the faded walls. Here and there, Cas thought he saw bullet holes in the wood, in between pictures of long-dead musicians, Roy Rogers, and shotguns.

_Definitely_ not _his_ place.

The song was out of place for the bar. It struck Castiel how it slowly seemed to build, spilling over the heads of all the people on the dance floor. The people paused, and looked confused. But Cas hardly noticed. He was smiling.

This was _Dean's_ song.

Castiel might be socially inept. He might never have seen the first four _Die Hard_ s or travelled to Middle Earth. But he knew Dean, or at least, he knew his music. It came from the hours and hours that he needlessly spent in the Impala. At this thought, Cas frowned. He really ought to have left by now. They didn't need him; he was needed in heaven. There was a _[...]_

Civil war.

But Cas wasn't focused on the end of that thought. Dean was sidling across the bar, looking as if he'd been here his whole life, as if it didn't bother him the least that about three women had already tried to flirt with him, just walking across the dance floor. _His_ Dean. It had been long enough now, though Cas would never have admitted it, that he considered Dean to be his. He didn't know how, or when, this structure of thought had become second-nature to him, but it was.

“But now I feel with it rain, and the pain, and it's headed my way...” Dean was offering his hand to Cas, and he took it without thinking.

Cas did not dance. He did not go to bars, or drink beers, or flirt with beautiful women. He was an angel of the Lord. He prayed; he believed. He wanted to put heaven back together.

None of that mattered. Castiel did not dance, but he was – somehow – dancing foolishly with Dean. He thought that he might have imbibed more of his warm beer than he intended, for now he was smiling, and laughing, and standing a little too close to the other man. Dean smelled of cheap whiskey, women's perfume, and sulfur. Cas took it all in, holding firm to the other man's jacket. If he didn't, he thought he might fall.

“Goddamnit, Cas, you're beautiful.” The words were slurred. Dean's head was pressed warm against his neck; Cas could feel his breath. He could smell the tangy taste of alcohol. He could sense as well the rest of the bar, all around them, sharp and wary, too drunk to be hostile.

“Dean.” It was meant to be a warning, but Dean only pulled him closer, hands underneath his trench. How had his hands gotten underneath his trench, his suit jacket, warm against the thin fabric of his shirt? Cas inhaled sharply. “Dean,” he said, more forcefully. He didn't want to speak. He didn't want to let this go. He wanted -

“Dean, we need to go.” Cas practically exhaled as he was pulled himself flush against Dean's body, dancing to the chorus. _Oh my way, been this way ten years to the day._

Dean was still singing the words as Cas shoved him into the backseat of the Impala. Still singing as Cas climbed into the driver's seat and stared perplexedly at the steering wheel and gears. He knew if he left the Impala here Dean would kill him, but that didn't make this easier.

Plus, he had Dean singing in his ear, mixing the words into other songs, until it had become a melody of all the music Dean had ever heard. It was all needlessly filthy and rebellious.

Which only made Cas' ability to focus more difficult.

“Please, Dean,” he nearly whined as now Dean seemed to have turned his attention to Cas' actual ear, and was _licking_ it. Cas very much wanted to turn his head; he wanted to feel those lips on his. He had thought about this, but he thought right now that he might be dreaming, or drunk, or lost, and he didn't know how in less than a few hours his best friend had turned into a tempting, Led Zeppelin singing minx.

Well, actually, Cas suspected that he had long since come to consider Dean attractive, and that he was projecting his feelings onto the other man's behavior. He suspected this, but the rational part of his brain suppressed it. It was easier to blame Dean for everything, at least while stuck in the woods, outside a redneck bar with the perplexing level of a Chevy Impala before him.

"Push in the clutch. No, with your other foot."

Suddenly, Dean's voice was clear, instructive. His breath was in Cas' ear, making the angel feel dizzy, and filthy, and confused. But Dean's hand was on his, moving it to the gearshift, showing him what to do, even in his inebriated state. 

"Now, put her in neutral. There..." 

The car came to life under them, humming. But all Cas felt was Dean's five o'clock shadow pressed against his, the sweet smell of whisky on his breath. The soft melody of John Cougar Melloncamp blasted from the radio, and Dean groaned. 

"Turn it off, Cas."

"I don't -"

And now Dean was leaning across the middle, chest pressed against Cas' arm, turning the stereo knob. Every single one of Dean's buttons seemed to press into Cas' arm, leaving half-moon impressions in his flesh. He heard his breath catch, leaning his head just to the side to catch Dean's mouth. Their lips met, casual. Dean tasted like rough oak, and smoke, and everything that Castiel had imagined (or not).

"Dean," Cas said, barely breathing.

"Put her in drive, Cas."

But it was Dean's hand on his that led the way. It was Dean's hand that held him steady, changing gears, whispering encouragements when they stalled out at the traffic light. And other things. Things meant only for Castiel's ears. If only Cas had known, he might have stayed sooner, longer, forever. 

"Stay?" said Dean, once they were parked outside the motel. 

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror. Cas felt frayed, panicked from his near collision with a stop sign. He didn't know why he was here, or why he had suggested to go, or why he hadn't just mojo'd Dean home. But Dean's eyes were calm, steady in spite of the alcohol. They seemed to smile at him. They seemed to tell him what he needed to know, even when he didn't know that he needed it. 

"Where else would I go?"


End file.
